I have recently come to the conclusion that my life is totally run by fear. The fear that I am going to fall, embarrass myself in some way, die in some inexplicable way, etc., etc., etc. I look at some of the people in my family and I don’t think they have the same affliction. While my mom says that the reason she won’t drive South is because she is scared, I think that is bologna. I think she just doesn’t ever want to get suckered into an airport run. The woman will drive to Westchester Airport if you’re lucky, but if a cross of the Tappan Zee Bridge is mentioned, or God forbid, the Whitestone, consider yourself stranded.
While I am pretty confident in my driving abilities, the fear that I will somehow injure myself permeates my entire life. Every time I fall I break something. Literally. Both of these wrists have been busted in half. My middle finger on my right hand (which I had to prominently display for the X-Ray at a mere 7 years old, and honestly, the sheer joy I get when exhibiting it now is on par with what it was back then) has also seen better days.
When it snows and the streets turn into an icy mess, I am literally paralyzed with fear. It takes me a good 35 minutes longer than normal to navigate those slippery slopes. And by slippery slopes, I mean the flat 10 blocks that are between Madison and 36th down to 27th street. Last winter an elderly man blew past me as I shuffled my feet hoping for some extra traction. I was envious of his speed, but wondered why he wasn’t as petrified as I was. He was clearly looking for trouble.
As I get older, the fear gets stronger. I used to be able to fly with no problem. I was actually a calming, soothing, voice for my more anxious sister. Now I literally have to remind myself that thousands of planes fly every day. That people do this for a living and they don’t die. I used to hate the people that clapped at the end of a flight. Now I practically want to jump up on my seat, praise Jesus, and kiss every man, woman, and child on the plane after a safe landing. As if landing is you know, like, not the norm.
I won’t ski, skate, climb anything, go on rollercoasters, or swim with jewelry on (it attracts barracudas). This weekend I was with my bestie and we were driving (in a civilized car, equipped with airbags) up a mountain and I literally said, ‘Please slow down, I am scared we are going to fall off a cliff.’ Yes, like an old lady ... telling someone to slow down. I also wouldn’t go for a hike because I saw some hunters in all of their gear and was convinced they would think I was a bear and try and shoot me. So I guess you can add that to the list of things I won’t do … walking.
I am scared that by the time I am 40-ish, I will be so scared of everything that won’t leave my house (yes, scared of being scared forever). A real deal Boo Radley! Only my ass won’t be coming out to save some wayward children – hells NO, fool! I’m not about to get shanked by some freakazoid!
This fear better go away. Either that or somebody better medicate me, stat.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
This Is Love - PJ Harvey
This song will always be one of my most favorites. I don't know what has been going on recently, but my girl PJ has been blowing up on my FB newsfeed. I've never seen this video before (shameful seeing how it is one my top songs of all time) and honestly, it's perfect. The shoes?! The fringe?! She is amazing ...
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Mambo Italiano
I am a firm believer that there are two types of people on this great Earth … Italians, and those who wish they were Italian. Now I am not one of those people who is abnormally proud of their heritage. I have no Italian gear … no Italian flag tattoos on my body or paraphernalia hanging in my home. However if I had no cultural affiliation and had to choose what I wanted to be, I would definitely choose Italian. And of course, true to form, it's all about the food.
Perhaps this blog is coming from a place of pure excitement … I will be attending the San Gennaro Festival (or as the real guidos call it … The AVEST) tomorrow and can hardly contain my excitement at eating my way up and down Mulberry Street. I went last year with my dad and honestly had the best time ever. We prayed at some giant statues, stopped by his friend, Baby John’s place, and spent a fortune on Italian pastries. Peeps from all over make their way to San Gennaro, however, don't get it twisted – most of these people are simply posturing, they are literally hoping that by surrounding themselves with Italians, they might somehow BECOME Italian … like through osmosis or something.
It really cracks me up that some people think because they can cook some sauce that somehow they understand, or worse, KNOW what it means to be Italian. One time my mom made gravy for some of my sister’s school friends (in South Carolina, mind you) and this girl actually had the nerve, THE NERVE, to say, 'What is this green stuff, spinach?' Ummmm … no, friend, that would be basil. Don't talk to me about being Italian and shizz until you've woken up to the smell of sauce cooking on a Sunday morning. Or until your grandma feeds you a freshly fried (yes, you heard right) meatball before it goes into the sauce.
When my Nonnie died people did their best to be very comforting, but I felt that very few people understood what I had lost … primarily, my most bestest friend and person I spent the majority of my childhood with. Out of the hundreds (or so it seemed) people that showed up at her wake, there was only one person who I felt truly had an understanding of what the deal was. This guy came up to me and said,
Well yes … QUITE a few actually, and I immediately felt a little better about an overall terribly sad situation. Because here was a man, who I barely knew, that understood exactly what I was thinking (no, not that I would never eat those dar-is-ous cutlets again), but that there was a whole lot of culinary traditions that could never be recreated.
So tomorrow, when I am enjoying myself and time with friends at San Gennaro, I am going to think of my Nonnie and eat many a zeppoli for her (and I guess, in a way, be the nice Italian girl that I was always destined to be).
Perhaps this blog is coming from a place of pure excitement … I will be attending the San Gennaro Festival (or as the real guidos call it … The AVEST) tomorrow and can hardly contain my excitement at eating my way up and down Mulberry Street. I went last year with my dad and honestly had the best time ever. We prayed at some giant statues, stopped by his friend, Baby John’s place, and spent a fortune on Italian pastries. Peeps from all over make their way to San Gennaro, however, don't get it twisted – most of these people are simply posturing, they are literally hoping that by surrounding themselves with Italians, they might somehow BECOME Italian … like through osmosis or something.
It really cracks me up that some people think because they can cook some sauce that somehow they understand, or worse, KNOW what it means to be Italian. One time my mom made gravy for some of my sister’s school friends (in South Carolina, mind you) and this girl actually had the nerve, THE NERVE, to say, 'What is this green stuff, spinach?' Ummmm … no, friend, that would be basil. Don't talk to me about being Italian and shizz until you've woken up to the smell of sauce cooking on a Sunday morning. Or until your grandma feeds you a freshly fried (yes, you heard right) meatball before it goes into the sauce.
When my Nonnie died people did their best to be very comforting, but I felt that very few people understood what I had lost … primarily, my most bestest friend and person I spent the majority of my childhood with. Out of the hundreds (or so it seemed) people that showed up at her wake, there was only one person who I felt truly had an understanding of what the deal was. This guy came up to me and said,
‘A lot of chicken cutlets must have passed through those hands over the years.’
Well yes … QUITE a few actually, and I immediately felt a little better about an overall terribly sad situation. Because here was a man, who I barely knew, that understood exactly what I was thinking (no, not that I would never eat those dar-is-ous cutlets again), but that there was a whole lot of culinary traditions that could never be recreated.
So tomorrow, when I am enjoying myself and time with friends at San Gennaro, I am going to think of my Nonnie and eat many a zeppoli for her (and I guess, in a way, be the nice Italian girl that I was always destined to be).
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Holy roly, me oh my ...
I felt the need to share the song (and video) that has been stuck in my head for weeks. I listen to it and it instantly makes me happy. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!
Edward Sharpe And The Magnetic Zeros - Home from Down on Vimeo.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Older and (somewhat) wiser ... maybe? sort of? huh?
Oh blog – it sure has been a long time. Why is that every post starts like this? We are in a doomed relationship you and I … I want it to work so badly, yet I won’t put the time in. These long breaks make me miss you terribly though, so that must count for something.
Anyway, I must be forgiven because in the next few days I will be celebrating my twenty-fifth birthday. This post is a bit premature (but that has been my style since birth … literally) and the thought of being a quarter century old is as petrifying as it is liberating. I feel like now everyone is making their big life plans. There are some people, who at this age, already have a failed marriage under their belt. Well not this gal, I am ripe for the picking and can’t wait to screw up what I am sure will be SEVERAL marriages. It seems like every conversation I have recently has been about weddings. Who is getting engaged? Who is getting married? Whose wedding was a shitshow? And whose wedding I got so crunk-a-lunk at (sorry Em!) that my wedding date thought he was sharing a room with a chainsaw. Note to reader: martinis at 1pm and an endless supply of champagne makes your wedding guests F-U-N!
Maybe this first quarter century was just for jokes and these next 25 years are when things start getting really good. I think about how much you (can’t) really know in your first 25 years. Important things like qualities that are deal-breakers in friendships, boyfriends, husbands, etc. And also how waaaayyy off base you could be about other things like not mixing navy blue and black … can someone say MISTAKE? I was staunchly opposed for too long, now I envision myself wearing no other colors. Clearly I was not reaching my full fashion potential at such a young age.
At any rate, I think that these next years will provide a new lease on life. Who knows what they will bring – maybe a new job, more money, and new friends to share my days and booze with, maybe even my first (again, not necessarily last) husband … I guess we can all strive for something!
Not that my old friends, job, and boozing partners are all bad, but you know, I am feeling the age of a woman living in her second quarter century … wise, optimistic, yet still scared shitless about what the future will hold for this lady.
So who knows? Drink up to another twenty-five.
Anyway, I must be forgiven because in the next few days I will be celebrating my twenty-fifth birthday. This post is a bit premature (but that has been my style since birth … literally) and the thought of being a quarter century old is as petrifying as it is liberating. I feel like now everyone is making their big life plans. There are some people, who at this age, already have a failed marriage under their belt. Well not this gal, I am ripe for the picking and can’t wait to screw up what I am sure will be SEVERAL marriages. It seems like every conversation I have recently has been about weddings. Who is getting engaged? Who is getting married? Whose wedding was a shitshow? And whose wedding I got so crunk-a-lunk at (sorry Em!) that my wedding date thought he was sharing a room with a chainsaw. Note to reader: martinis at 1pm and an endless supply of champagne makes your wedding guests F-U-N!
Maybe this first quarter century was just for jokes and these next 25 years are when things start getting really good. I think about how much you (can’t) really know in your first 25 years. Important things like qualities that are deal-breakers in friendships, boyfriends, husbands, etc. And also how waaaayyy off base you could be about other things like not mixing navy blue and black … can someone say MISTAKE? I was staunchly opposed for too long, now I envision myself wearing no other colors. Clearly I was not reaching my full fashion potential at such a young age.
At any rate, I think that these next years will provide a new lease on life. Who knows what they will bring – maybe a new job, more money, and new friends to share my days and booze with, maybe even my first (again, not necessarily last) husband … I guess we can all strive for something!
Not that my old friends, job, and boozing partners are all bad, but you know, I am feeling the age of a woman living in her second quarter century … wise, optimistic, yet still scared shitless about what the future will hold for this lady.
So who knows? Drink up to another twenty-five.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Hot Ass Yoga
This morning I was running a bit late. Two factors contributed to my tardiness – first, my tea was exceptionally hot and I couldn’t slug it back per the usual, and second, I was reading the new issue of O magazine and one article in particular struck my fancy. It was about a gal who, in an effort to change her life, took up Bikram yoga. I didn’t get a chance to finish the whole thing (I will be doing so this evening) but it struck me as humorous because I related to her story, for I, in a moment of stupidity, decided to take a Bikram class.
It was the summer of 2007 and I had just graduated college. I didn’t have a job and I thought to myself, why not take advantage of all this spare time and attempt to get myself into some type of shape. This was referred to as the Summer of Love, as I spent many a morning with my more physically fit family members at the gym.
One day I was persuaded to go to a ‘special class’ at a special studio with my fitness companions. It was to be a 5pm Bikram Yoga class and I was given a few guidelines - It would be hot and I should cease all eating at least 2 hours before class. No stranger to yoga, I thought no problemo … I’ll do what I can and if a maneuver is too difficult, I will just go right into child’s pose and wait for the next one.
As soon as I got there, I could start to feel the heat in the room and knew this was going to be more difficult than I had anticipated. Most of the people, including some men, were so sculpted it brought a tear to my eye and as the room heated to a stifling 105 degrees, it became very clear that I was not cut from the same cloth as all the other people. The instructor came over to me and tried to help. She corrected 95 percent of my poses, but I think she gave up on me eventually – I was truly a lost cause. Every part of my being was sweating. Knees, ankles, elbows … things that I didn’t even know could sweat were sweating.
At one point in the class, they gave out towels to put over your face to decompress. I was so thankful for this short moment and I took the opportunity to start sobbing. It must have been apparent, because my workout buddy got off her mat and kissed my sweaty forehead in an attempt to comfort me. Needless to say, it was not a pretty sight.
As the class wrapped up, I hobbled into the locker room to gather myself after the mid-class breakdown. I didn’t feel well and I looked even worse. The other women looked at me like I was a shooting victim and their faces told me I should be rushed to the hospital. I was sporting my frizz halo and my sister was bottle feeding me water.
It was a workout never to be forgotten or replicated, for that matter.
It was the summer of 2007 and I had just graduated college. I didn’t have a job and I thought to myself, why not take advantage of all this spare time and attempt to get myself into some type of shape. This was referred to as the Summer of Love, as I spent many a morning with my more physically fit family members at the gym.
One day I was persuaded to go to a ‘special class’ at a special studio with my fitness companions. It was to be a 5pm Bikram Yoga class and I was given a few guidelines - It would be hot and I should cease all eating at least 2 hours before class. No stranger to yoga, I thought no problemo … I’ll do what I can and if a maneuver is too difficult, I will just go right into child’s pose and wait for the next one.
As soon as I got there, I could start to feel the heat in the room and knew this was going to be more difficult than I had anticipated. Most of the people, including some men, were so sculpted it brought a tear to my eye and as the room heated to a stifling 105 degrees, it became very clear that I was not cut from the same cloth as all the other people. The instructor came over to me and tried to help. She corrected 95 percent of my poses, but I think she gave up on me eventually – I was truly a lost cause. Every part of my being was sweating. Knees, ankles, elbows … things that I didn’t even know could sweat were sweating.
At one point in the class, they gave out towels to put over your face to decompress. I was so thankful for this short moment and I took the opportunity to start sobbing. It must have been apparent, because my workout buddy got off her mat and kissed my sweaty forehead in an attempt to comfort me. Needless to say, it was not a pretty sight.
As the class wrapped up, I hobbled into the locker room to gather myself after the mid-class breakdown. I didn’t feel well and I looked even worse. The other women looked at me like I was a shooting victim and their faces told me I should be rushed to the hospital. I was sporting my frizz halo and my sister was bottle feeding me water.
It was a workout never to be forgotten or replicated, for that matter.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Happy Anniversary!!
Hello Blog,
I want to say Happy One Year Anniversary. I am a few days late, but I have been in a turkey induced coma and I am just coming to on this dreary Monday. I can’t believe that we have been together a year. So much has not happened; I haven’t gotten a haircut, a cavity, or a job since we started our relationship. This will all be changing soon, I am sure of it. Also, Amy Winehouse is still kicking, plus she got a new pair of boobs, so I was really wrong with my initial predictions regarding the remainder of her life.
I hope we have another good year together. One that brings me the things I dream of … fortune, travel, and shoes, all in wild abundance. I’ve also been dreaming of a certain Gucci G Wave medium leather shoulder bag in grey, but perhaps Santa will deliver on that one.
Love ya, mean it.
I want to say Happy One Year Anniversary. I am a few days late, but I have been in a turkey induced coma and I am just coming to on this dreary Monday. I can’t believe that we have been together a year. So much has not happened; I haven’t gotten a haircut, a cavity, or a job since we started our relationship. This will all be changing soon, I am sure of it. Also, Amy Winehouse is still kicking, plus she got a new pair of boobs, so I was really wrong with my initial predictions regarding the remainder of her life.
I hope we have another good year together. One that brings me the things I dream of … fortune, travel, and shoes, all in wild abundance. I’ve also been dreaming of a certain Gucci G Wave medium leather shoulder bag in grey, but perhaps Santa will deliver on that one.
Love ya, mean it.
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